Page 49 of The Lady’s Deception

“Oh.” Her swift release of breath sounded disappointed. “It’s just the same as ‘Rosie.’”

He pulled her closer still. “Not to an Irishman.”

She seemed to consider his reply for a moment before saying, “Goodnight, Paris.”

He felt certain that the spark of desire burning inside him—in addition to the hard floor—would ensure he passed a damned uncomfortable few hours. But as soon as she spoke, a wave of relaxation swept over him. With his arms wrapped tightly around her, absorbing every rise and fall of her breast, he soon dropped into a deeper and easier sleep than he had known in months.

Chapter 17

Rosamund awoke with a shiver, alone on the cold hearth.

Panic fluttered through her chest before she could stop it. She still could not explain, even to herself, why she’d been so desperate to make Paris stay with her last night. Persuading him had taken every ounce of her courage and something else besides. Something she hadn’t even known she possessed. Mrs. Sloane would have called them feminine wiles.

Perhaps she had been in shock. Would that explain—to say nothing of excuse—her erratic, improper behavior? Not just last night, but every night since she’d met him? Enjoying the intimacy of a midnight conversation. Relishing the feel of being held in his arms. She had so little experience making her own choices. Why, just look at the foolish ones she’d made! Kittens and sticks of barley sugar and…Paris. Sweet things that would inevitably grow up, melt away, turn bitter.

Then, in the faint morning light, she saw Paris’s greatcoat still draped over the chair. He hadn’t left her. Not yet.

She sat up, stretched stiff muscles, and rose. Behind the screen, Daphne and Bell slept on; Eileen was busily engaged in her morning ablutions, washing vigorously between spread pink toes. Pale sunlight pierced the thin curtains covering the window beside the bed, and when she peeked out, she could see rough water in the distance. Too rough? Would it be very poor form to pray that the ships would have to remain in the harbors of both Holyhead and Dunleary, so that her brother could not come after her, and Paris could not leave? Oh, she felt like a ship, buffeted by winds of uncertainty, not knowing whether she most wanted an anchor or a sail.

Quickly, she splashed water on her face and managed to pin up her hair. The chambermaid must have slipped in before dawn and returned their clothes, considerably fresher than they had been. Once she was dressed, she went to the hearth, folded the blanket under which she’d slept, and then stepped behind the screen again, intending to lay it on the foot of the bed.

This time Bell was awake. “G’morning, Miss Gorse,” she murmured sleepily, reaching for the kitten with half-open eyes. Then she exclaimed and sat bolt upright. “Oh!” Startled, Eileen arched her back and turned into puff of white fur. Bell grinned as she tried to soothe her. “Oh, it is a good morning, isn’t it Miss Gorse?”

The commotion woke Daphne at last. “What’re you on about, Bellis Burke?” she groaned.

“You know, Daph,” she said, nudging her sister and giving her a significant look that seemed to be directed at Rosamund as well.

“Oh. Oh, yes.” Daphne smiled too, though her expression bordered on sly. “Good morning, Miss Gorse.”

One did not need to be a governess to recognize when children were up to something. At a loss to know what it might be—perhaps they were simply exuberant at remembering they’d been reunited with their brother—Rosamund shrugged and wished them good morning in return.

“Now, out of bed, you two, and dress yourselves, quick as a wink.”

“What’s the hurry, Miss Gorse?” asked Daphne. Definitely sly.

“Ladies do not hurry, Daphne,” she answered, mustering her primmest voice. “They are, however, prompt and prepared to greet the day.”

Eileen nudged her hand to be petted, so Rosamund plucked the kitten from the tumbled bed and carried her to hearth to keep her from being a distraction to the girls while they dressed. Listening to the sisters prod and annoy one another produced an unexpected twinge of melancholy. The certainty of a sibling’s affection, the security of family, seemed so remote as to be a dream.

Before they had finished dressing, Paris came in, clean shaven and wearing a fresh cravat. “And how are my sisters this fine morning?” he called from the doorway. “Well rested?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Bell from behind the screen. “But aren’t you going to ask Miss Gorse how she slept?”

His eyes sought and found her standing near the fireplace, and he winked. She remembered suddenly how he had called her Roisín. Rosie. She had never imagined the name could give her anything but pain. But when spoken in that suggestive, Irish way of his… Her answering blush seemed to begin in her toes. “I daresay she must have slept poorly indeed, with you two for her bedfellows.”

“Don’t forget Eileen,” retorted Daphne, and the two girls giggled rather conspiratorially before making their appearance.

He ushered them downstairs to the inn’s dining room, a considerably quieter and pleasanter room than the pub. Paris sat beside Bell, who was sneaking bits of coddled egg and kippers into Eileen’s basket. Rosamund sat across the table, beside Daphne. They looked for all the world like the little family their hosts believed them to be.

The charm of that image exerted a dangerous pull. This was not her family, could never be her family. Charles was still her guardian, and he would never permit it.

A young man came into the dining room and announced in a surprisingly deep voice, “The Claremont is aweigh. The Industry has hailed the shore. If you’re Dublin-bound, make ready to board.”

The words caused a slight stir among the other diners. Two gentlemen rose and left the room. “Come, girls,” Rosamund said briskly, not looking at their brother. “Finish up now.” Despite Paris’s reassurances, Rosamund still feared Charles and Lord Dashfort might well be aboard that ship.

Paris, however, continued to eat at a leisurely pace.

Daphne watched him for a moment. “Aren’t we going back to Dublin today?”